Two young McGregors determined to make my life miserable.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I lie.
Mary coughs into her napkin.
I’m fairly certain she’s hiding laughter.
The rest of dinner proceeds in relative peace.
People ask me questions about Edinburgh, my studies, my professional experience.
I answer with the bare minimum of detail required.
Then, right as dessert arrives—a heavenly-smelling apple crumble—the dining room door suddenly swings open.
Ragnar trots inside, closely followed by Hamish.
Ragnar scans the room, spots me, and marches straight toward me with fierce determination.
“Oh no,” Mary murmurs.
Ragnar settles at my feet, rests his head on my shoe, and lets out a contented sigh.
Everyone stares at me.
“The animals like you,” Maggie observes with satisfaction. “That’s a good sign.”
“Not animals. Just this sheep,” I correct. “And I have no idea why.”
“Ragnar is difficult,” Alistair says. “He doesn’t get attached to anyone. The fact that he chose you…”
He lets the sentence trail off, but the implication is obvious:
If Ragnar likes me, I can’t be entirely terrible.
Meanwhile, Hamish watches from the doorway.
He looks at Ragnar.
Then at me.
Then at Mary.
Then back at Ragnar.
And finally lets out a bleat that sounds suspiciously like mocking laughter.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“No idea,” Mary replies. “But Hamish always looks like he knows something we don’t.”
“Jamison?” Maggie calls.
“Yes, madam.”
“Please remove Hamish.”
“Very good, madam.”
